


In Every Sense of the Word

by bleedinqhearts



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Hate Sex, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, flirting in the form of insulting each other, i am in love w tooru oikawa & im glad the haikyuu fandom is being brought back to life, i love tropes and cliches and u bet ur ass this is full of them, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedinqhearts/pseuds/bleedinqhearts
Summary: In which you and your childhood rival have a mutual agreement that if neither of you can have sex with the people you’re pining for, the next best thing is to fuck your frustrations out with each other.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 27
Kudos: 151





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> can be read on my tumblr (bleedinqhearts.tumblr.com)

> **TWO WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT**

Tooru is acutely aware that he is quite possibly the biggest dumbass in existence, but when your hips meet his, all thoughts about his stupidity leave his mind. 

Your eyes are screwed shut in pleasure, and usually, this is enough to sate his ego, but not tonight. Not tonight, when he’s armed with the information he’s had since forever but was too big of an idiot to realize. Not tonight, when he’s seen you at the lowest point of your life. Not tonight, when he’s afraid to blink because he wants to have your face when you reach ecstasy etched in his mind. Not tonight, when he’s about to say what he should have said years ago. 

“I’m close!” You gasp out, and now your eyes are open, your hands still clutching his back, digging your nails in deep. He’s still holding your legs around his waist, and he’s subconsciously rubbing gentle circles on your aching calves, and you moan out. It’s an action that’s not supposed to help get you off, but it’s oddly sweet and perhaps even endearing, and–

 _It’s just sex._ You scold yourself. _Stop looking for a deeper meaning, and searching for signs that aren’t there_. 

He’s brushing against all the spots inside of you that make you see stars, and you have to turn away from the sheer intensity of his stare. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never been stared at like before, and it leaves a warm feeling in you, not unlike–

“Oh, fuck!” You moan, and now you’re coming on his dick, and he’s not slowing down. The rhythm you two have built is rapidly deteriorating, and now his thrusts are messy, sloppy, and have no rhyme or reason to it. You’re still so slick and wet that he’s ramming into you with ease, and he lets one of your legs drop as he uses the hand that was holding it up to find its way to your chin, gently forcing you to stare at him. 

_“I’m in love with you.”_

You dreamt about having those words spoken to you, but you never thought that the first time you hear it would be during sex. That isn’t the issue, though. The issue is that it’s shortly followed by a groan, signaling that Tooru is finished, only he hasn’t pulled out of you yet, and now he’s just staring at you, panting slightly, all flushed cheeks and a sweaty forehead. 

And you want it. You want it to be true so desperately that you almost say the words back – _almost_. 

But it’s the way he’s staring at you that makes you mad, and you push him off of you, angrily turning away from him. 

“Get out.” You say.

“[Y/N], wh–”

“ _Get_. _Out_.” You repeat yourself, and you have to focus so hard on not letting your voice shake. 

He doesn’t say anything else, and there’s some rustling in the background as he finds his hastily discarded clothes. 

When he leaves, he doesn’t slam the door. He closes it gently and softly, and this only serves to fuel your anger. You grab the closest thing you can reach, ready to throw it at the door, but when you realize what it is, you stop.

It’s the trophy from a month ago, from the night you realized you wanted more than just sex with Tooru. You don’t even have to trace the indentations in the plaque beneath the trophy to know what it says. You and Tooru were the ones who had told the guy what to inscribe.

**_PROOF THAT TOORU OIKAWA AND [Y/N] [L/N] ARE CERTIFIED GENIUSES_ **

You shove the stupid trophy underneath your bed, and for the first time since high school, you cry yourself to sleep.

> **THREE YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND THIRTEEN DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

“[L/N]!” Sakura Aki calls out your name before passing the soccer ball to you. The moment it leaves her footing, the ball is yours. It’s a transition so smooth and fast that Shiratorizawa’s number five is almost caught off guard. Keyword being _almost_. Yes, the ball is yours, but you don’t like how she shakes off her mild shock easily. 

However, while number five _might_ be observant and hard to surprise, you’re still easily faster than her. This is your favorite part of the game. You have the ball, and whoever has it is always the one controlling the game. Your right leg is pulling back and the moment your foot properly collides with the ball, you’re overcome with a wave of satisfaction as Shiratorizawa’s goalie jumps in an attempt to block your goal. You admire her fast reflexes and tenacity, but the attempt is futile and a failure that will ultimately haunt her throughout the rest of her high school soccer career. She’s nowhere near the ball, and the people in the stands cheer loudly. 

The clock has run out. The second and final quarter of the game is over.

Shiratorizawa didn’t stand a chance. 

You look at the scoreboard and then to the stands, and there’s a sea filled with dozens of spectators, all of them cheering and smiling, but you don’t find the person you’re looking for. Your teammates are all running towards you though, so you quickly wipe away a stray tear and plaster on an obnoxious smile that screams to the world that _you’re_ the one who scored the winning goal of the game. 

Surrounded by actual smiles, you can almost trick yourself into believing yours is just as real.

━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━ 

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I know how much you wanted Dad to be here, but work is busy, okay? Things at the office are getting hectic, and they need him.”

 _It doesn’t matter._ You tell yourself. _It’s just one game. It wasn’t even an important game_. You don’t remind yourself that this is the third game in a row that he’s missed. The third “ _just one game_ ”. The third “ _it wasn’t even an important game_ ”. 

(Never mind the fact that all games are of importance.)

Your mom notices your smile falter for just a second when you come to the realization that he didn’t make it to the game even though he _promised_. She tells you that she’s treating you to ice cream to celebrate. You try to sound like getting ice cream is the most exciting thing in the world, and that you’re just simply _ecstatic_ at the fact of getting such an _amazing reward_ , but your words sound hollow and fake even to you, but your mom just wraps an arm around you, squeezing gently as she tells you that she’ll even let you get four scoops on your cone this time.

You don’t have the heart to tell her that you’re sixteen now, and that you got six scoops last week whenever you went out for ice cream with your team. 

You put on a show that you’re absolutely delighted with the four scoops, and your performance is so well-done that your mom is actually happy, and you consider briefly if you should pursue soccer or an acting career.

> **THREE YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND ELEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

Sundays are your least favorite days. It’s the one day where you don’t have practice, and the idea of taking a break from practice is such a foreign concept to you that your captain, Sakura Aki, has to warn you that if she finds out you’ve been practicing by yourself when you should be resting that you would be off the team. For a girl that’s eighteen and barely five feet, she can be intimidating when she wants to be, and for the most part, you obey.

Along with having no practice, Sundays are the designated days for the weekly dinners your family and the Oikawas share. Your parents and Tooru Oikawa’s parents have known each other since high school and much to both of your dismays’, they continue to be good friends. Such good friends that they live next door to each other and force their children to join in on the fun festivities. Or, in the cases of Mrs. [L/N] and Mrs. Oikawa, force their darling children upon each other.

“Oh, Tooru, honey, [Y/N] is out in the backyard! Why don’t you go give her some company while we finish up dinner?” Mrs. Oikawa giggles, sharing a knowing glance at Mrs. [L/N] that Oikawa notices, cringes at, and then allows himself to curl his lips in a tight smile. He can’t outright tell his mother that he’d much rather shoot himself in the foot than spend any time with you, but your mother is smiling at him like he’s an angel, and he knows that it’ll make both mothers happy if he obliges, so he does. 

He opens the backdoor, but you’re so focused on what you’re doing that you don’t even notice the door opening and closing. (Granted, he chooses to do it as quietly as possible in order to catch you off guard.) 

You have a bunch of plastic bottles lined up, and he leans against the door as he watches what you’re about to do.

You line the ball up as far from the bottles as possible while still managing to give yourself space to run and kick at the ball. He sees you take a deep breath, watches the way your eyes zone in on one specific bottle, and you kick the ball forward.

The first bottle knocks down. You repeat the process. 

The second, third, and fourth ones also fall down.

It’s the fifth one where you miss, and even though it’s not even that far off, you curse out loud. You pick up the ball, gripping it tightly, and Oikawa decides that now’s the time for him to make his presence known.

“Didn’t know you had such a potty mouth, [L/N].” He says this as if he’s saying something pleasant and friendly, and you hate that cheerful cadence of his. He pairs his words with a sickeningly sweet smile that does not reach his chocolate colored eyes, and your scowl only deepens.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. He knows you do, too, so he doesn’t answer and only chooses to steer the conversation in a direction he pleases.

“I heard you guys won your game. You guys must be pretty good.” He sounds like he’s trying to compliment the team, to compliment _you_ , but this is Tooru Oikawa, and he hardly ever means what he says, so you don’t acknowledge him. 

You set up the bottles once again. You line up the ball exactly in the middle of them. You get ready to kick.

“Shiratorizawa’s athletic teams are no joke.” He says, but his voice is background noise as you watch the first bottle topple down.

You focus. You aim. You kick. You succeed.

You repeat this process, and Oikawa is silent, for the most part, until you’re about to aim for the fifth bottle. That damn fifth bottle is located too far left, but if you want to be a star player, you have to be able to kick at all sorts of angles. You take a deep breath, and Oikawa holds his.

You focus. You aim. You kick. You _miss_. 

You’re expecting a biting remark from him. A justified jibe, something to throw back at you in retaliation for all the insults you hurled at him throughout the years you two have known each other, but he doesn’t say anything. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his track pants, and he tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, as if to ask you why you’re paying attention to him instead of resetting your line of bottles.

“What? Nothing to say?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so angry, because usually, Oikawa provides a reason for your frustration. He says something to you, and _then_ you lash out at him. 

You’re staring at him with the ferocity of a lion about to tear its teeth into a gazelle, and Oikawa just shrugs his shoulders, as if to ask “what am _I_ supposed to do?”. 

You grab the bottles, ready to chuck them in the recycling bin, but as you make your way to the door, Oikawa stops you. Not verbally, and not physically, but he makes it known, somehow, that he wants you to stop moving, and for some reason, you do.

You have to look up to make eye contact with him, a fact that you utterly despise, and one that he takes great pleasure in. There’s no satisfaction right now though. He appears to be almost thoughtful, but that’s impossible, because while Oikawa _can_ be thoughtful, it’s never towards you. 

“Practice makes perfect, [L/N].” There is no teasing tone being used on you, no small smirk on his face that lets you know that he’s messing with you. You allow yourself a second to let his words wash over you. 

You keep the bottles for the rest of the night, and after dinner, you head back out to practice once again. 

You knock down every single one of them, and there’s a surge of satisfaction that flows through you when you watch the damn fifth bottle finally topple down. When you turn around, you half expect Oikawa to be there watching. 

You don’t see him, and you feel stupid for expecting that at all. You just wanted something to boast about, but it’s fine, because even if you did brag about this achievement to him, it wouldn’t matter because he’s seen you fail at it twice beforehand. 

You walk to the front of your house to toss the plastic bottles in the recycling bin, and he’s back at his own house, taking out the trash. 

He glances over at you, but you aren’t paying attention to him. His ever so observant eyes flicker to your face. Your jaw is unclenched and relaxed now, and your eyes don’t have that angry glint in them anymore. 

He’s glad. 

It’s much more fun for _him_ to be the reason for your anger.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

> **THREE HOURS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

“You came.” You straighten up from the stretch you were in the middle of doing, and you make your way to Tooru. “You actually came.” 

Tooru smiles at you, and your heart skips a beat as you return it. He’s giving you a real smile. You can tell it’s real because when Tooru actually smiles, his whole entire face is involved in the process, and he looks genuinely _happy_. There’s nothing perfect about his real smile; it’s a little crooked and too wide, but you wouldn’t trade this smile for any of his perfect ones. 

“Of course I would come. I told you I was going to.” He looks like he’s about to hug you but thinks better of it. You pretend not to notice the way he awkwardly scratches his head as an attempt to cover up the way he was going to extend his arm out to pull you in for an embrace. You don’t mention that you wouldn’t have minded if he hugged you, but the moment’s already passed, so you just go back to smiling at him.

“I think you’re forgetting a lot of people tell me they’ll come, and never do.” The comment isn’t meant to provoke any pity, and for a brief second, you wonder if he thinks you’re trying to bait him into saying something to show what a sympathetic guy he is, but then you remember that this is _Tooru_ , and there’s no role for him to play when he’s with you.

“I wanted to watch you play.” He says it matter-of-factly, and such a simple statement shouldn’t make you so happy, but it does. 

━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━

> **SIX YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND SEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

It’s the final soccer match for the Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High’s girl soccer team, and your very last junior high game ever. The rest of your team is doing basic stretches and listening to a few last minute pointers the coach is throwing out, but you’re not paying attention.

You crane your neck as high up as you can, and you’re aware you look ridiculous, but you really don’t care. The bleachers are filled up, and it’s a myriad of Kitagawa’s school colors of navy blue and white fighting against a sea of Shiratorizawa’s maroon and white. It’s nearly impossible to focus on anyone clearly, but you try your best. 

“[L/N]!” Your coach snaps you out of your futile search for your father, and you jog back to your team obediently. There’s the mandatory motivational speech, the same bullshit that Coach Toobetsu always spouts out at every game, the same speech that all the other girls on your team have memorized, even the first years. 

You can hardly focus on the game at all. You keep looking up at the stands, and there are plenty of close calls where you nearly miss the pass from one of your teammates or one of the opposing team members almost steals the ball from you. Even though your mind isn’t as into the game as it should be, muscle memory and assists from your teammates ensures a close victory against Shiratorizawa. 

When the game is over and all the spectators clear the stands, the only people who stay back are friends and family of the girls who played. You spot your mom, and you wave at her, but there’s no smile on your face. 

This is the first game your dad misses. 

━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━

He comes home late but since it’s a Friday, and you did just win a big game, your mom allows you to stay up until nine to tell him all about the game.

And you do. You tell him how you were nervous since this was the very last game of your junior high career, and how you couldn’t tell the other girls you were very nervous because you’re their _captain_ , and captains _never_ show fear. You tell him how you scored two goals, and how Coach Toobetsu was near tears at the end of the game. You tell him how you missed seeing him, but you understand that work is busy, and by the way, you think Mom recorded the whole entire game anyway, so he can always watch it later. 

You tell him all of this, and you think he’s listening. 

He’s not. 

> **SIX YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND SIX DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

It’s one in the afternoon. The sun is shining, and your brand new cleats (an apology gift from your father to make up for his absence the other day) are just as shiny. You have your old soccer ball underneath one arm, and you’re getting ready to practice in the backyard, except for a brief moment, you think you hear crying over the fence. 

It seems to be coming from the Oikawas’ side, and you stop in your tracks. Mr. Oikawa is at work, and Mrs. Oikawa went to the grocery store with your mom, meaning that the only person home and able to cry right now is their son. Tooru Oikawa is the bane of your existence, and your shorter hair only serves as a reminder on why you hate him so much. 

You run back into the house to grab a step-stool, and even though you’re standing on your tippy-toes, you can barely peer over the fence. From this angle, all you can see is a mess of light brown hair. The crying is quiet now, and you can barely hear it, but then there’s that unmistakable sound that appears only when you’re crying and trying to inhale at the same time. It’s like you’re choking and drowning all at the same time. 

“Why are you crying?” You ask, and his head shoots up in a nearly comically fast fashion. 

Tooru Oikawa doesn’t like you. He didn’t like you when you two were five years old and forced to go on a playdate. He didn’t like you when you two were eight and you bit him. He didn’t like you when he cut your hair in class just last week, and he certainly doesn’t like you right now. 

His eyes are redder than eyes should be, and his lip quivers for a second before he scowls, stands up, and flips you off. You roll your eyes at that before repeating yourself.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not!” He practically screams it out, and you hold back the urge to point out the fact that all evidence leads to you concluding that he has, in fact, been crying. 

His throat is raw and scratchy, and his voice cracks at the end, as is usual for most thirteen year old boys going through puberty. 

“Yes, you are.” You’re too stubborn for his taste, and the only hard-headed person he wants to deal with is Iwaizumi. He doesn’t have room in his life for someone as annoying as you, and you’re also the reason why he got grounded, and his grounding meant that he didn’t get to go to practice, and perhaps if he practiced some more, he could have beat Shiratorizawa and that stupid Ushijima boy. His red rimmed eyes are fitting; he’s viewing things under a red colored lens. Everything’s all distorted and warped, and he’s entering this fit of rage that only occurs because he keeps everything bottled up. 

“Can you just shut up for once, [L/N]?” He shouts. His hands are shaking, his voice is trembling, and picture perfect Tooru Oikawa looks like a boy unhinged. You should be scared. You should retreat back to the safety of your own backyard, far away from the fence that serves as the only barrier between him and you, but you don’t. You want to hear him out. You want to hear what the great Oikawa has kept hidden in the darkest depths of his being. 

“Okay.” You say it quietly, but he hears you nonetheless. He shuts his eyes, sits back on the grass, and shakes his head.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose.” He says it with too much bitterness, much more bitterness than the average thirteen year old boy should be able to say things with, and you’re stunned. You heard about the boys’ volleyball team’s loss, but you hadn’t known that it was _this_ bad. 

You think of the emptying stands and looking up to only seeing your mother. 

“I get it. Sort of.” 

A beat passes.

“Don’t tell anyone what you saw.”

You’re confused. “Everyone cries, Oikawa.” 

“I’m not everyone.” He opens his eyes, and he spits out the words with contempt and then gets up. 

The slam of his backdoor closing shut is a signal that this conversation is officially over.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

> **SIX YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND THIRTEEN DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

You’ve known Tooru Oikawa for nearly most of your thirteen years of life, and each day you spend breathing the same air as him is another day you hate. 

He knows this. Your parents know this. Hajime Iwaizumi knows this. You’re pretty sure the whole entire _prefecture_ knows about this at this point. And yet, despite the fact that a whole entire section of Japan is well aware in the fact that you absolutely despise Tooru Oikawa with every fiber of your being, the girls in your grade at Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High find this fact extremely hard to believe.

(You find the fact that they don’t believe your hatred for Oikawa runs deep to be a testament to how thirteen year old girls don’t know very much about anything.)

It’s obvious that you don’t enjoy Oikawa’s company, and that the only reason you two walk home together is because your parents are _forcing_ this little arrangement. Thank God for Iwaizumi because he’s broader than your average middle schooler, and he serves as a nice, solid wall between you and Oikawa. 

However, in math class, there is no one to act as a physical boundary between the two of you. Because your math teacher, like every other math teacher in existence, is the devil incarnate, he had the bright idea to create a seating chart that dictates you to sit in front of Oikawa. 

And just in case your hatred for Oikawa isn’t enough reason for you to absolutely be _seething_ with rage at this seating arrangement, the fact that every girl in your class now hates you because of this serves as another good reason for the teacher to move you. 

(Your teacher, however, thinks this is a joke and merely laughs as you frustratedly try to convince him that this seating chart is a matter of life or death.) 

(”Why do you want to switch seats so badly, hmm?” Your teacher asks, a small smile stretching on his face. “Don’t tell me you like Mr. Oikawa.”

“Ew, no! He’s disgusting!” You exclaim. “He’s such a jerk, I could never like him.” 

Your teacher only laughs harder now. “Y’know, [L/N], sometimes middle school boys are particularly mean to girls they like. You better be careful, he might cut your hair and thinks that’s a proper declaration of love.”)

(Did you mention that all math teachers are the devil incarnate yet? Because they are. They _so_ are.)

━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━

Garnering a majority of the female student body’s attention is something new to Tooru, but like most new things, he views it in a positive light. It’s refreshing and exhilarating and just plain fucking _cool_. It’s like whenever he was seven years old and received his first ever volleyball. It’s a life changing event, that’s what this is.

(But, little does he know, unlike the volleyball, female attention gets old – _fast_.)

He receives love letters written on fancy stationery that’s sealed tight in pink envelopes. He gets tiny little chocolates and homemade bento boxes offered up to him during lunch. He gets an actual verbal love confession at least once a week, and girls start coming to the gym just to watch him practice volleyball. 

( _Take that, Tobio!_ He thinks to himself, quite smugly, _all the time_. Because, here’s the thing: Tobio Kageyama can be a genius all he wants, but he’s _never_ going to get a girlfriend if he doesn’t learn how to smile.)

But with the light comes the dark, and thirteen year old girls are plenty old enough to know how to act outright _nasty_ to other girls they view as competition.

And the girl who poses as the biggest threat?

[Y/N] [L/N]. 

And look, _here’s the thing_ : Tooru Oikawa couldn’t care less about you. He’s got way better things to do, like destroying Shiratorizawa at next week’s volleyball game (his last game of junior high!), or trying to figure out different ways to reject girls (he doesn’t want to have the same response for every girl; that’s just _insensitive_ ). Except, well, his parents _have_ been getting onto him recently for being rude to you. (Naturally, they only catch the times where _he_ trips _you_ but never whenever _you’re_ the one tripping him.) So, he promised them he would make an effort to be nicer to you, but you make it really difficult because everything that comes out of your mouth just grates him the wrong way, so ignoring you seems to be his best bet at not saying something spiteful, only you take his silence as a pass to have a free-for-all roast fest about him and–

–and you make it _extremely exhausting_ to not insult you. 

Every day, he has to sit behind you in math class (already his worst subject, and now you only serve as a reason for him to hate it even more so). Your shampoo smells like strawberries, and Tooru really wishes it didn’t because he absolutely loves strawberries, and it should be illegal, he decides, for you to ever be associated in any shape, way, or form to strawberries. 

(He considers writing a letter to the school to enforce this rule.)

Your hair is usually tied up in a ponytail. Not because you look good in them, but only because it’s easier for you to do things, but he heard your mom fussing about how you were damaging your hair by doing so, so now it’s loose and free today, flowing in all of its [H/C] glory. 

But, hidden beneath thick locks of [H/C], he catches sight of something bright green. A small, chewed up wad of gum. 

His first thought is to laugh about this ( _literally_ behind your back), but his second thought is this: you are not a complete idiot, and he’s pretty sure it’s impossible to have gum _accidentally_ get caught in your hair. (How would that even happen?) 

The class is filing back into the classroom steadily, and there’s a group of giggling girls who look awfully suspicious. They’re whispering behind their hands conspicuously, and Tooru refrains from rolling his eyes. _Of course_. 

You might be observant on the soccer field (or, so he’s heard; it’s not like he’s ever been to one of your games before), but you sort of wander through life with this hyper-focus on one thing and one thing only. It’s easy for you to get lost on a math equation and not realize class has ended until he purposely pulls your chair back to bring you back to earth, and while he’s never been a fan (or ever really good) at math, he can put two and two together. Sakura, a girl Tooru rejected nearly a week ago, favors this mint gum that she’s always obnoxiously smacking on in class. It’s bright green, and he only recognizes this because during her little confession of her feelings for him, she was chewing furiously on a piece of it, and the smacking and chomping kind of disgusted him, and the vivid image of what the wad of gum looked like is forever ingrained in his memory. 

So, he might not be a gum chewing expert, but he’s no amateur when it comes to identifying the offending piece of gum as having been previously chewed (read: chomped on) by none other than Sakura, who no doubt thinks this is some clever revenge plan. (He doesn’t see the genius in the plan, though. Now, he’s even less likely to ever harbor feelings for her.) 

He’s well aware that because of his parents’ and your parents’ requests that you two must walk home together, this puts a target on your back. He doesn’t outright try to defend your honor (your sharp tongue isn’t reserved for making insults aimed only at Oikawa after all), but he’s quick to remind everyone that he is most certainly _not_ involved with you _romantically_ or _platonically_. 

But, then there’s that whole entire damn promise he made, the one where he would at least _try_ to make an attempt to be friendly towards you, and friends don’t let friends walk around with gum stuck in their hair, _right_? 

Except, you’re a highly volatile person (at least, you are whenever it’s him you’re dealing with), and everything and anything he says to you can be used against him, and he’s not really in the mood to deal with an argument with you right now. Sakura’s still with her gang of giggling girls, and they’re all staring at you, but you’re looking at what appears to be soccer strategies, and you’re so deeply invested in it that you’re not even aware of what’s going on. That’s probably how they managed to sneak the gum in your hair; unless it’s Tooru, you don’t really notice anyone else’s presence unless they really want to get your attention. 

And so, Tooru does something that’s really stupid and not at all very well thought out. He knows that even if he tells the truth on why he did it, no one would believe him. Not even Hajime would completely buy the story until he realizes that all the telltale signs of Tooru lying aren’t showing up, but even then, he’s still a bit reluctant to see the truth. 

But seeing the girls laughing at you, especially when you’re unaware of it and being victim to a poorly planned prank, he can’t help but feel a little bad for you. It’s a fleeting feeling, but it’s odd. Pitying you, that is. Because while he hates to admit that the two of you have anything in common, the last thing in the world either of you wants is _pity_. But victims get pity, no matter how much they don’t want it, and Tooru Oikawa will be damned if you’re the unsuspecting victim to this stupid gum prank. (Looking back, Sakura admits that it was a bit silly and idiotic, but she was a thirteen year old girl _in love_ , okay?)

So, Tooru makes the equally stupid decision to take out his scissors, and he cuts off nearly four inches of your hair.

You turn around mid-cut, and he has to stop, and now your hair is all jagged and crooked and skewed, and you’re absolutely _fuming_. If this was an anime, smoke would be coming out of your ears. He’s clutching the cut of chunk of your hair in his hands, and he’s distinctly aware of the teacher scolding him and making his way to the classroom phone to call the principal (does it sound like the teacher is holding in laughter? It sounds like he is…). That doesn’t matter, though.

You look mad. You’re angrier than you’ve ever been at him, and it’s odd, because usually your anger makes him annoyed or amused, but never afraid. You look downright _murderous_ right now, and it’s taking all his willpower not to run off.

“Why the hell would you do that?!” You’re not screaming, but you’re not exactly whispering, now are you? He wants to say a trademark Tooru Oikawa one-liner. Something equal parts suave and charming but also smart and hard to reply back to. But words fail him, and he’s still clutching your hair (which is surprisingly soft, by the way), and seeing him with your hair in his hands obviously makes you even angrier, and you reach to grab it, and when his palm opens just the slightest, you see it: the green wad of gum stuck in between strands of your [H/C] hair. It sticks out, still shiny with spit, and you want to gag at the sight, but then your anger dissipates…

A wave of understanding washes over you. 

“Oikawa, you are _such_ an idiot.” You hiss.

Tooru tightens his grip on your hair, covering the gum, proud of himself for not throwing up when he feels the wetness of the wad press into his palm.

“I know.”

━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━

“Nice haircut.” 

It’s the very next morning, and you got sent home to a shocked mother. She pays extra for you to get a hasty haircut on extremely short notice, but it paid off.

(Your father doesn’t notice your new haircut.)

You reach up to move your fingers through the strands of your hair, and you’re still not used to having it so short, but now, you suppose, it’ll be much easier to play soccer. That’s a plus, you guess.

But still. You didn’t plan on getting an emergency haircut, and even if it looks kind of good shorter, you don’t want Oikawa getting off easy.

(He doesn’t. He’s grounded for two weeks, and his mother came knocking on the door, near tears, offering to pay for your haircut.)

“I hate you.” You say, looking straight ahead. Iwaizumi is between the two of you. 

The sun is shining. He is one day closer to his final junior high volleyball game. He’s going to crush Shiratorizawa. He’s no longer expected to play nice with you. Things are good.

> **TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT**

“You cut your hair.” Tooru doesn’t hesitate whenever he reaches out to touch it. Your hair is soft and silky. He loves it.

(He tries his hardest not to, but he thinks he just might love everything about you.)

You smile bashfully. “It’s just a minor trim. Barely an inch.” You don’t mention that he’s the first person to notice it at all. 

(You’re not sure what this means, but it feels important. _Almost_.)

He takes a step back, as if to examine you in all your glory. He tilts his head thoughtfully, grinning broadly.

“It suits you. You look good, [Y/N].” 

“Thanks.” _Tooru’s just being nice, [Y/N]!_ You remind yourself. _It’s not like he_ means _it or anything._ “You know what Natsuki said when I told him I got a haircut?”

Tooru’s smile falters just the slightest at the mention of the boy who holds your heart. The image of him spiking a volleyball in Natsuki’s smug, bastardly face is euphoric. He’s never been one for violence, but accidents can happen all the time in sports. He wonders, briefly, how he can manage to get Natsuki in the gym during volleyball practice…

“What did he say?” Tooru asks. Friends talk about this stuff, right? Because that’s what the two of you are… _friends_.

You laugh softly, but it sounds a little sad. “He said ‘that’s sensible’.” You look at him intently. “That’s basically a compliment, right?”

Tooru wants to scream out “ _be with me, and I will shower you with so many compliments that you will never, ever doubt yourself ever again!_ ”, but he doesn’t. Maybe he should. Maybe he should follow Hajime’s advice and just, as he crudely put it, “grow a fucking pair and confess, so I don’t have to listen to you bitching over the phone every other weekend”. 

But your smile still looks a little sad, and he never realized it before, but you’re a little uncertain on just how _stunning_ you are. You cling to the tiniest phrases that hint at the beauty you possess, and you keep those words clutched to your heart, and when was the last time a boy has ever called you _pretty_? He wants to kick himself on his bad knee for never praising you outside of sex. He’s amazed, honestly.

For someone so beautiful and so observant, you’re completely blind to the beauty you possess. 

“I always knew Natsuki Adachi didn’t have a way with words.” Tooru shakes his head. “I hope for his sake you misheard him, and he actually meant ‘that’s _sexy_ ’.” 

“I hate you.” You used to say the words with actual contempt behind them, but now it’s a joke. It’s the same three words, but they suddenly feel different. Almost like there’s something hiding behind the shadows of them. But maybe he’s just imagining that because he _wants_ there to be some sort of secret confession to your joke. 

“Now, now, [Y/N], let’s not go around saying things we don’t truly mean.” 


End file.
